


scarecrow

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: Darkfics/The Fucked Up Reality In My Head [9]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Obsessive Behavior, Sexual Fantasy, Suicide, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: -- they might say I’m sick, but I know what I did, and I know why I did it, and I know how the world really works- inescapable monotony, pull me out, it’s crushing me, it hurts!!Or: The instability of obsession, inability to let go and subconscious need to bewantedlead a young man to unveil his own desire for atrocity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago and never actually posted it to Ao3 for... reasons. Mainly because I didn't know if I could format it well enough to give the reader the same visceral experience as the original copy of the story; however, I've finally circled back around to it. I want you to be very aware of the tags; do not read if you know for a fact something in this will squick you out or trigger you.
> 
> That being said, to anyone who does read this, thank you so much! I daresay this was the story that helped me get back into writing on my own again, and it is very precious to me. Enjoy, my fellow darkfic lovers.

**Scarecrow**

**...**

 

It all feels worthless anymore. No, perhaps not even worthless- _futile,_ as if everything he’s worked on, everything he’s spoken of, the relationships and assignments and self-sacrifice through the years little more than naught at all. The underlying sense of… loathing, _self-loathing,_ **desperation** … has quickly overwhelmed him above all else. 

There’s a point, Violan decides, when something ends up broken beyond repair. There’s nothing quite like it, the beauty in the horror of abnormality, the feel of drowning in his own mind, the overwhelming nausea in his gut whenever his eyes so much as glimpse in the mirror. It’s a lost cause, really- he’s reminded himself of it, numerous times, but every word seems to slip through one ear and out the other before he can so much as blink.

Now, he tries to blink- tries to take a deep breath and shake it off, all the pain and the scars and the self-pity from the last few months that are weighing on him like garbage. Emotional baggage, indeed, and that was potentially the least of his worries. It was, to be forthcoming, akin to a spell of melancholy; having dug himself into a place where escape was improbable and ignorance was impossible. ( Even if there was a method to any of this madness, he couldn’t decipher it .)

It felt, sometimes, as if he didn’t even have a voice. His throat was numb, vocal chords cut up and taken out, ripped from him, head swirling with such a cacophony of loud, frustrating thoughts that they were prone to overwhelming him. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t overwhelm himself, either; not by looking at the empty space beside him in bed every morning, or the dark clothes he always adorned, as if spurned by a motivation of mourning that refused to leave.

A sigh.

It was so much… so much to handle, so much to take in, the emptiness that had been filled by a companionship like no other, one he both craved and knew he shouldn’t, couldn’t rationalize when everything was…  ruined.

_ Dead. _

Death was, truly, the great defeater of men; and yet, as a human, dying was inevitable. It was fate, and… and he felt so… so fated  _ now, _ that waking up every morning had become impossible, that trying to live was… hardly worth it. Nothing matched the  **void** in his chest, perhaps nothing ever would, and that was a fate worse than any humans had to face themselves.

There came a time when blindness was better suited.

His head rang of  **insanity** . 

* * *

 

That was the first tick; utterly unreadable, invisible, carried beneath the surface though it ate away at his brain like a parasite. A symbiotic, dependent relationship that he’d neither wanted nor cared for, and for fuck’s sake- he was  _ nineteen.  _ Nineteen, and it seemed so worthless, so inevitable that he’d one day die, wouldn’t be facing the rest of this anymore, the mindless suffering of waking up every day  (alone) , moving around  (alone) , getting ready for class  (alone). ..

It was times such as that when he retreated to his deepest fantasies, nearly regressive in progress. On occasion, he’d think about before, about being locked up, isolated, wondered if the doctors would be appalled at how short he’d come, how lacking his progress had been. Yet it was hardly worth remembering, thinking of… of sorrow, locked away in his chest, of being unable to express his emotion, expected to hold everything in.

Their relationship was… messy. It had been secretive, and full of the roughness of falsehoods and lies that shouldn’t be expressed to others. For one, Ansel was married- for two… the age difference and the professional relationship had been something entirely different. He had been unwanted company, an unwanted  _ presence  _ at the funeral, so much so that being pushed out of the church before anyone could give a eulogy hardly came as a surprise.

Violan knew well enough that questioning his own motives never helped- that it only led to further angst, internalization, and an  inescapable prison of containment within one’s psyche. That didn’t keep him from… feeling, aching, over something so indescribable that no words would ever truly explain his thoughts.

Even with a knife, unsteady, shaking in his hands as it pulled through flesh enough to expose what was underneath- red, so much red, so many shades… the filth and disgust and grotesque horror under his own skin, he could’ve imagined the blood to be  **pitch.** Could’ve watched it peek out and drip like  _ bloody tears _ from the crack in his flesh, splitting open, raw rashes and itching,  decaying flesh , a macabre picture that encompassed the essence of self-hatred.

And yes,  god yes, it did burn , and it burned so  wonderfully that he did it again, and again, until the painted surface outmatched his own needs, his mind suffocating, or even reeling, from the ecstasy that fogged his mind. His eyes slipped shut, and the blade half fell, and  _ no, this isn’t death, this is beauty, it’s _ _ not enough to kill, only enough to bleed… _

He wondered if Ansel was as pretty when he got shot. As handsome as he’d been at night, sleeping, dark cheeks dusted with a faint strand of light, hair messy and chest bare, scars along his torso in places that precious few were allowed to know… wondered if he looked as nice when the coroner had laid him out on the table and cut him open, fished out the bullet, if his guts had made a mess of oranges and reds among everything else, if they’d been pulled out and tossed aside or strung around his neck until he was…

Gone.

Dead.

_ I loved him. _

_ Did you really? _

_ I don’t know. _

No, it was… it was **pain** **,** and that sickeningly sweet image of flayed gore that really seemed to get to him, Violan’s entire being rooted around the thought of it, the concept of everything, the concept of… of being killed, of killing, of seeing the horrors and (the beauty, oh, the beauty) of death come to life… to watch **murder** , to watch grief, to watch **destruction** , _such a royalty he’d never hoped to achieve!_

Was this losing it?

* * *

 

The recesses were often messier than the rest of it, filled with tar and blood that seeped and mixed together before his eyelids as he stood, watching, barely able to look at the row of newly-lined stones, slick with rain and chiseled in grey, a true beauty  that nobody understood until after they’d passed. And yet passing… passing was hardly a thing to be remembered. Violan didn’t believe anymore- that death was fate. People died before death- he was dead already, filled with nothing but decay and rot,  _ could hear the maggots rustling around and making their home inside his skin, the holes in his flesh filled with dirt, no more blood, it was all gone, only black was there now… _

The shovel felt too heavy in his hands, like lead. Though he’d always been shaky, even now- his frame was willowy, weak, not suited to the duties of holding even a few textbooks before this. And yet that wasn’t dissuading… he could break  his back, his arms,  his neck and it would be a similar result. Falling apart… was just a part of what dying meant.

He pressed the tip of the shovel into the soil and began to dig, to push through the layers of earth, of space, of darkness between him and what mattered- the only thing that held worth in this world, the only reality,  _ him, my love, my companion,  _ _ oh, how I’ve longed for this, _ _ we’ll be reunited so very, very soon…! _

\--------!

**Hours.** There was no telling what time passed as he laid there, half fallen in the dirt and tangle of weeds, roots sprawling through the earth, back slumped against a headstone now half-lopsided, stretched out and aching. Pain resonated through every nerve ending, every  molecule of his body, a fierce heat that could not be recalled, could not be ended… he felt…  _ weak.  _ _ Dead, my sorrow, my heart, ripped out, plucked from my chest, consumed, the horror… _

And it was impossible,  impossible  to tell when exactly it had happened, but somehow, Violan’s hands were wrapped around heavy arms, finding perch on a sturdy chest that nearly heaved, reeking of the plague that had been brought upon his former partner’s body, fully clothed still in a well-made suit, tailored and impeccable on his form. He seemed… less than he once had, his shoulders not as broad as they once were, gaze not as welcoming. But then the younger was pushing his eyelids up and-  _ yes, that sparkle, mirth, he’s laughing at my foolishness, same as always. _

“I have missed you,” he said, dark hair falling in his eyes, the mud still clinging to his body, blood smearing his skin from his cut up hands, watching the other’s dazed expression with a look of discontentment. And- “Would you have called me  crazy for missing you, sir? Would you have scorned my childish needs and wants…? I… I admit that I am less sane than I was when we last saw each other, but I am no less myself.”

A laugh. “Remember when I got sick, that last week of semester? I was vomiting, crying to myself, barely able to get out of bed… you encouraged me to bathe, to rest, you took care of me, gave me medicine, made sure my head was stable…” Violan bit his lip, roughly, blinking away the crystalline rivulets that had welled in the corners of his gaze. “I’m to do the same for you, Ansel. It would be wrong of me not to. You… you’re sick, sicker than I was. I need…”

A glance, dazed, as he struggled to sit up, pulling the listless body closer, worriedly looking around. “I need to get you home. My apartment… I can… take care of you. Fix you. Fix all of this… it was my fault. All my fault.” A shuddering gasp. “Please… just let me… let me get you back to safety.  Warmth… ”

* * *

 

The anxiety ate at him. It was something all it’s own, the worry of whether or not others could see his… disturbances. The enigma that hid inside his head, a world all its own. Weariness that took over the bits of his head that he needed to stay sane, exhaustion filling the crevasses between what was his brain and what was his skull,  so full of empty spaces he couldn’t comprehend what was actually there…!

_ But it doesn’t matter. _

And no, no, it didn’t matter at all. Not when the world was back with him, when he could wind himself so tightly around those stiff arms and press his face into that dark hair, could smile against his skin and breathe in his scent. Ansel had smelled earlier, of a sort of rot that Violan couldn’t stomach… he’d had to tend to his wounds again, flush them out, inject them with the medical fluid again- curing the decay- and bandaging them, making sure that the soap used across the wounds was flowery, lively, as if…

_ Dead. _

_ He’snotdead hesnot nesneverbeendead Imsuffering heshereforme savememylove saveme saveme SAVEME. _

Calm.

He nodded to himself, half nervous, half frantic, nearly abashed just staring into those open, half-lidded eyes… dull, so dull, rimmed with darkness and _glassy pupils,_ _staring into his very fucking soul_ , as if his entirety was bared to… this.

It was  tempting.  Such a temptation that Violan found himself licking his lips, glancing away self consciously, as if he could force away the darkest of his thoughts, the disparity inside him that needed some kind of outlet, some kind of… upheaval. Exorcism, maybe, if it would purge him of the ruin-- and…

_ He’s injured I shouldn’t be thinking like this I shouldn’t be tempted… still smells of rot, sickly, that pale skin, he doesn’t know what I’m doing… wrong, what would the doctors say, shouldn’t be tempted, no, not me--! _

And then, with a mere breath, he was surging forward, locking lips with those cold, immovable ones, his tongue sliding along the crease of his mouth and opening it up, baring his tongue until he could taste a familiar mixture of chemicals and blood,  _ so sweet, why have I forsaken this, once was never enough. _

Within seconds, their positions were fixed, defined as the younger man threw a leg across his lover’s hips, straddling him, pressing his body against a soft bulge beneath thin trousers, a short moan escaping his lips. There was nothing better than- than to  feel, to be  claimed ,  used up,  filled \-  but no, no, he’s too sick, too weak, you can’t force him-  and his hands were sliding to a perfect waistband, unhooking the button until he could slide the pants off once more, take in sight of that glorious,  glorious flesh … 

A heady sigh, a moan, as the teenager quickly shed his own boxers, his shirt hanging loosely from his thin, bony shoulders as he arched forward, barely making a movement to grab hold of the other’s length, sliding fingers along a shaft coarse with bumps, but so familiar, achingly familiar in his grasp… Violan was throwing his head back, yearning for more, hissing with the pressure building in his abdomen, some sort of flaring  **need** as his teeth found a bloodless neck and sharply sank through pale skin, pulling back, wanting  _ more. _

“Yes, yes, my love, I’ve been waiting so long, felt so weak, so lifeless without you-! I need you to be mine once more, to be joined, to love…”

His fingers found the girth of his length, stroking it until he could swear he saw Ansel shivering, tensing and arching beneath him- and  oh, it was so, so good, so beautiful… made him feel like crying out, even as his fingers found the crease between his balls and his ass, toying with the sensitive area before breaching himself, spreading his entrance apart. And- and  god, it burned, burned so good he was crying …!

Nails pulled against the tingling skin, making it ache so well, blood trickling over his fingertips as his other hand found his cock, stroking it, jerking and roughly squeezing himself, palming himself to hardness. Violan was crying, trembling, so fucking desperate he couldn’t fathom-  _ white, shocking light behind his eyelids, and stars, his fingers were pushing into that spot and curling so nicely. _

With a short cry, he came, covering the thighs of his prostrate lover, the corpse unmoving as he surged forward, kissed with a brutal passion that was unbridled in need. Slumping onto his side, he collapsed atop the cool chest, the unmoving flesh yielding when he pressed against it, wrapped arms around the corpse to hold him closer, wanting.

**“You’ve never been so beautiful…”**

* * *

 

~~ Oh, how fragile! ~~

His hands were shaking, fingers weakly grasping at the bottle of pills as he gave them a final glance. The voice at the back of his mind was clawing, needy, tearing him open the longer he hesitated, whispering promised of  _ better soon, good soon, safe here, warm here… _

A struggled breath. A feathery, light moan, as Violan uncapped the lid for the painkillers, pouring an amount of them out on the counter beside the sink, his eyes gazing blankly at the mirror. They were rimmed red, shaded by dark circles, glassy and wide, pupils dilated to a point where he seemed as…  dead as Ansel was. Slowly, he sighed, nodded, turned himself away… faced the door. Yanking the lid off of the liquor, he hardly had the mind to care when the metal grazed his palm, tearing at the pale flesh and dripping blood across pristine floors.

~~ Milky white, slick with red ~~

~~ Alizarin, vermillion… ~~

A sigh, a last nod as the man tried to pull himself together. Standing here now, he seemed impossibly weak, fragile, a mere speck on a canvas of black… a child to the world. And how the longing filled him! The  **dread** …

He watched the blood drop, listless, no words to be said as his throat vibrated with a heaving, short sob. Pulling himself together, he raised the first pill to his mouth and swallowed it whole. No water. No fluid.  He could see them sticking out of his throat, his windpipe, so many pills, crowding him until he suffocated...

~~ Oh, my dear! ~~

Tearing, impossible agony split through his chest, opening it up to a cry full of bountiful rage, his hands shaking as they held the knife up once more, barely able to focus on the outline of a dull reflection in the glossy metal of the blade. The water building behind his eyelids obscured his vision, a cacophony of whirring and static abundant inside his ears, drilling his head full of pitch until the brain was completely gone.

~~ How you must hurt ~~

~~ How your head must grow weary ~~

~~ How burdened you must be. ~~

_ Yes, _ he thought. Yes,  _ my head, my body, my chest, oh how gloriously it burns-! _ The knife shoved in, plunged deep until he swore it would impale his heart, the breath in his lungs replaced by a upthrow of blood from his throat, smothering his voice and his windpipe with chunks of his internal organs, body shutting down so  **beautifully…**

Failsafe . Foolproof. And what a thing it was,  _ to die _ ,  _ to be dead at last and buried alongside his corpse, his beautiful lover, so lifeless his skin seemed to crumble as the faintest of touches!  _ What beauty there was, here, and now, in their language-  **the language of corpses and death and rot from the inside.**

~~ Oh, how long I’ve waited! ~~

Waited to feel again, to feel real, and the only real feeling was drowning. Because life was one shitshow after another, and romantics never ended up with anything but a broken heart.

~~ I want to feel you collapse ~~

_ And they might say I’m sick, but I know what I did, and I know why I did it, and I know how the world really works- inescapable monotony,  _ _ pull me out, it’s crushing me, it hurts!! _

~~ Feel your bone marrow mix with mine ~~

~~ In the sickness that is our love ~~

Of course, it wasn’t really love, was it? It was a comfort passed between two sentient beings who couldn’t have mattered less in the grand scheme of things. And it was only now that Violan realized-  _ I preferred Ansel better as a corpse, anyway. _

~~ Chaotic remnants of scars cut through your skin ~~

~~**How harrowing the world must be… ** ~~


End file.
